


1957-D No. 1.

by conceptofzero



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-09
Updated: 2014-01-09
Packaged: 2018-01-08 02:14:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1127179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/conceptofzero/pseuds/conceptofzero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The War is over and Prospit may be long gone, but the Wise Quartier finds some comfort in her friendship with Ms Paint and in the art she makes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1957-D No. 1.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lumbercapt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumbercapt/gifts).



The Wise Quartier pauses at the entrance of Ms. Paint’s shop when the smell of burning cloves and tobacco hits her nose. She knows MP well enough to know what that smell means and that she might be better off turning back now and stopping by in a few days, when Ms. Paint has presumably finished whatever she is working on. But she came all the way downtown and she has another meeting late this evening to discuss the validity of certain homesteading permits, and what she needs down is the company of someone who will not be arguing with her the entire time. 

She steps into the cozy painter’s studio, making sure to jingle the bell loud enough that Ms. Paint will hear her approaching. The place is as WQ remembers it; cozy (or perhaps cramped depending on how well you take small spaces) and tidy with various paintings hung on the wall as examples. She has a few of MP’s originals hanging on the walls of her house, beautiful bright things with a liberal use of gold paint that capture the spirals of their true home.

WQ knows she should stop thinking of Prospit like that, but she can’t help it. This new world is fine, but it will never really be a home for her. 

Ms. Paint comes out of the back, wearing a paint-spattered smock. There’s a cigarette in her mouth and a peevish look in her eye that says she doesn’t appreciate the interruption but is going to tolerate it because business is her bread and butter. But the look smooths somewhat when she sees it’s WQ. “Quartier! Turn the sign for me and lock the door, I’ll go pour us something. Wine?”

“Only one glass for me. I have to meet with some land developers later.” She does as MP requests and flips the little OPEN sign in the window to CLOSED, PLEASE RETURN ANOTHER TIME and draws the lock on the door. “Working on another commission?” 

“If I was, I would have been locked up already. It’s something of my own, so of course I have to stay open.” MP heads into the back of the shop, raising her voice so WQ can still hear her while she joins her. Wise Quartier lifts the curtain separating the two halves of the shop and steps inside, smiling a little to herself at how drastic of a change the two worlds are. The front-facing shop is immaculate, but the back half is a cluttered mess. It isn’t dirty, but it certainly is lived in, and there are little imperfections everywhere, mostly where paint has ended up on the floor or occasionally on a door jam. MP emerges from her kitchen with an open bottle of wine and a glass, pouring it for WQ and then topping up her own glass, set beside the painting she’s currently working on. “It’s been a while.”

“I’ve been busy.” WQ smiles a little and MP knows. Ms. Paint certainly knows all about that. WQ is hardly complaining about how busy she’s been either. She likes busy. If she’s not somewhat stressed out, she feels a little lost. Her kingdom always kept her busy and she prefers her job do the same, to keep her mind from drifting towards darker thoughts. Like now, she thinks slightly, and glances towards Ms. Paint’s kitchen. “I do hope you’ve been eating properly.” 

“Who has time for that? Don’t give me that look, we both know I’ll eat well again when I’m not busy painting.” Ms. Paint shakes her head a little, even as WQ tsks softly. She tries not to smother Ms. Paint but she can’t help but worry about her, especially when it sometimes feels like no one else does. “Just another week and I’ll be back to regular meals.” 

“Of course, I’m sure you will, but please, try to take care of yourself. I worry sometimes.” WQ lets it be after that, even though she would really like to meddle a little more. Her attention turns toward the painting in question, WQ stepping in front of it and giving it a look over. “Oh, this is interesting. I assume this is Prospit?” 

Ms. Paint sips her wine and nods a little. “It’s the Docks, or, at least inspired by the Docks.” 

WQ nods, able to see it now that it’s been pointed out to her. Ms. Paint’s work is (in her words) abstract expressionism and can sometimes be hard to understand if you aren’t in the right mindset. Here, she can see a ghost of the Docks in all their glory, ships represented by a series of golden squares set in a rigid hierarchy of lines that must represent the individual docking bays. Ms. Paint’s broad and somewhat viscous strokes have carved out the bustle of the place, the way it teemed with life without painting a single carapacian. WQ has no idea how she’s able to do it, but she appreciates the talent Ms. Paint has all the same. “Will you sell this when you’re finished? I would be very interested in it.” 

“Of course. It’s not done yet, but I’ll call you when it is.” Ms. Paint sets her wine aside in order to pick up a cigarette. Though WQ isn’t fond of the smell, she’s willing to tolerate it while she’s in MP’s space. The small artist walks up the small step ladder to her painting stool, getting settled and gesturing for WQ to take a seat on a nearby chair. “That’ll make four Prospit paintings you’ve bought from me. That’s more than anyone else.” 

“That’s a shame. I would have hoped more people would appreciate the life you bring Prospit.” She settles in a chair, her fingers brushing over the dried paint on the arm. There’s a sort of peace that all this clutter brings, a comfort that WQ can enjoy. “They certainly bring comfort to me. It’s nice to see a little of Prospit in my home, even if it is gone forever.” 

MP lets her cigarette dangle between her fingers, not so much smoking it as simply holding it. Her shoulders are relaxing slightly and WQ can see her friend through the stress. Who she is when she’s creating can be so different than who she is when she’s simply running her shop or attending social functions, but her core never really changes. There’s kindness in those eyes, and a wistfulness that WQ knows all too well. “I miss it so much some days.” 

WQ just nods. She doesn’t have to say anything. Ms. Paint will understand that few miss Prospit the way the Wise Quartier does. It’s best she pretends she doesn’t miss it when she is in the public eye, particularly when she is attempting to peacefully co-exist in a community of mixed carapacians, trolls and humans. But she misses the weight of her crown on her head and the power she once wielded over Prospit. She sips her wine, a little regretful that she can’t thoroughly get into the bottle with Ms. Paint. “Your work keeps it alive.” 

“Don’t flatter me too much, or I’ll get an ego and raise my prices.” Ms. Paint teases a little. She stubs the cigarette out half-smoked, setting it on the corner of her easel and reaching for her wine. “Mm, a pair of parents came in with a little girl a few days ago. She must have been.. oh, two years old? And it hit me; she’s never seen Prospit and she never will. A Prospitian who’s never even set foot on the planet she’s named for. Isn’t that strange to think?”

It’s a little worse than strange; it’s sad. They’re a people without a planet. The only thing that makes it tolerable is that she knows that every Dersite must feel the same way, and that even the trolls and humans suffer that same longing for worlds that are long passed. This place is a good place, one with plenty of resources and very little need to fight, but it is still not home. 

Home is gone. WQ tips her wine back, emptying her glass. Against her better judgement, she pours herself another, though she is careful to only nurse this one. “It’s very strange.” 

“That’s why I’m painting this.” MP gestures to the painting. Her palette sits nearby, covered with half a dozen shades of yellow and one dark blob of black she’s used to draw those oppressive lines separating the docks. “Someone has to make sure we remember Prospit.” 

“I’m glad that you’re preserving it.” She really is. Others might capture the way it looked, those golden spires and the tight deep streets that wind through the city, but only Ms. Paint has captured the way Prospit felt. Of all the art she’s collected, it’s Ms. Paint she returns to again and again. It isn’t just because she has a fondness for Ms. Paint (though, perhaps it is as well. After all, she was part of WQ’s court). She’s a talented artist, one of the best of their time, and WQ is glad to call Ms. Paint her a friend. “Are your commissions open?” 

“Always.” Ms. Paint motions for WQ to pull her chair in closer as she leans over and grabs a notepad off the table. “Tell me what you’re thinking of.” 

She really should set this aside for another day, but it’s been so long since she last had a chance to spend time with Ms. Paint. And she really could use another painting in her house. WQ already knows what she wants as well: the throne room. She stands and pulls her chair in close before sitting again, crossing her legs and describing exactly as she wants. 

This place isn’t home, but so long as it has people like Ms. Paint, the Wise Quartier can be content with her life. After all, life isn’t so bad when you have excellent company and good wine.


End file.
